


Instinct

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of non-con, Scent Marking, mentions of Derek/Kate, post 117, pre-Sterek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek returns to his adult form, all he can think about is getting the scent of Kate off him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short piece that tumbled out after last week's episode. Finally decided that if I was ever going to post it I should probably get it up before this week's ep.
> 
> Originally I was thinking of a decidedly more explicit story, but I don't know how much Derek can handle right after everything going on with Kate, so this ended up being a lot more about trust than smut.

Derek is pressed against him the second they’re alone, hand fisting into the back of Stiles’ shirt, face burrowing down into his neck.

He has about half a second to think _what the actual fuck_ before Derek’s nuzzling his collar, beard scraping rough as his cheek drags downward, then achingly soft as he switches direction and nuzzles back up. Derek lets out a soft, wild noise (and what the hell is happening? Seriously, what the _hell_?) and his hands are darting out, gripping Stiles’, almost clumsy with desperation, and Stiles can’t do more than tense a little before they’re being pressed and run up Derek’s sides.

And… fuck, ok, Derek’s got some _good_ abs, and Stiles’ head might be lolling a little to the side as Derek continues to rub every piece of his face along his bare skin, his nose nuzzling Stiles’ ear, his chest pressing flush against Stiles’ own as his chin hooks over his shoulder, bringing his own neck into contact with Stiles’ skin.

Derek’s lost it. That’s literally the only explanation. His brain’s short-circuited from getting his memories back too fast and he’s gone into wolf mode… or maybe into Apocalypse-Preaching Homeless Guy on the Street Corner mode, because there’s definitely an air around Derek like if he doesn’t do this, doesn’t keep rubbing himself against Stiles like a giant ridiculously muscled crazy person, the world’s going to start crumbling around them.

And the thing is, there’s nothing sexual about it, not really. He’s standing close enough to Stiles that he could definitely be grinding up on him if he wanted, but he’s keeping the nuzzling decidedly above the belt. In fact, they’re standing close enough that Stiles is _pretty_ sure he’d notice if Derek was getting turned on by this, and there’s no sign of that.

…He kind of wishes there were, because there’s a definite heat starting to pool in Stiles’ groin and it won’t be long before it’s kind of obvious. Which could end the night in all kinds of mortifying places he does _not_ want to think about.

Because while Stiles might be on the edge of admitting that this by far qualifies as the most intense necking experience of his life, there hasn’t actually _been_ any necking. Derek hasn’t made the slightest move to mouth at him, kiss him or bite him. His lips might have brushed Stiles’ skin (ok, _definitely_ have, Stiles felt them and the sensation ran straight through him in a way his brain’s too dazed up with shock right now to examine) but there was no pause or intent behind it – just barely-parted lips dragging across the skin behind his ear and quickly being replaced by Derek’s chin.

Stiles’ hands are still being led across Derek’s body in an oddly meticulous manner, Derek drawing himself back just enough to lead one down his right arm, and then switching to do the same to the opposite. Like Stiles is a towel Derek’s drying himself off with.

The extra space helps. Stiles finally gets his breath back to mutter shakily: “What the hell with you wolf-types and the non-consensual snuggling?”

He means it lightly, but Derek’s eyes go cold all at once. He falls back, dropping his grip on Stiles and shifting warily backward.

“I didn’t mean it like… I wasn’t trying to…”

“I know.” And honestly, Stiles kind of wishes he had been. That would be less confusing. “So what was all—“

“I _smell_ her on me.” Derek’s shrinking in on himself, breathing shallowly… and Stiles realizes he’s been doing that all night.

Kate. He smells Kate.

Stiles doesn’t want to think about anything Kate might’ve done to get her scent all over Derek.

(Derek’s been staying above the belt, Stiles hopes to God that means Kate did too.)

“And that’s not something a good, long shower can cure?”

Derek’s eyes move away, and he huffs out a frustrated breath, his jaw tightening.

“It would help, it would get rid of the scent, but in a situation like this…normally…” He trails off, clearly struggling. Stiles starts to snort, starts to open his mouth to say that he doubts there’s ever _been_ a situation like this, but manages to stop himself in time.

Abuse. Derek’s talking about a situation of abuse. Stiles has known about Kate, about the twisted mess of a thing that is Derek-and-Kate, for almost a year, but until he saw Derek as a teenager – grinning and joking, eating egg rolls and worrying about his family – Stiles has had a hard time really wrapping his head around what it  _meant._

Derek’s jaw has gone tight, but he manages to work it loose enough to grit out:

“Normally… a person’s pack would…”

_Oh._

Stiles finds himself stepping closer and offering his hand out.

Wolves are social creatures. Physical creatures. _Pack_ creatures. That’s what trying to win over Scott, what recruiting Isaac and Erica and Boyd, had been about. Having someone around to comfort you and lick your wounds when you’re down.

Derek watches the hand, a wary mix of mistrust and longing sparking through eyes that try too hard to be empty.

“Where do you need it?”

A broken sound drags from his throat. His hand goes out warily, hovering over Stiles’ wrist until he nudges it backward, into Derek’s grip.

“It’s cool, I get it. Where do you need it?”

He inches forward, holding Stiles’ palm steady and leaning his chest slowly against it. His eyes are on Stiles’ face, the desperation still lurking under the surface but being held in check. Watching Stiles for signs that this is too much for him… and that’s not what Derek needs right now.

He needs to be the one getting looked after.

So Stiles lifts his free hand and runs it up Derek’s arm, retracing a slow, firm path up the trail Derek had led it earlier, wondering how much it takes for a scent to settle into someone’s skin.

Derek doesn’t whine again but his expression speaks volumes, brows scrunching as he breathes in deep with relief, eyes sliding shut. He starts to run Stiles’ left palm up his chest until it’s cupping the side of his neck.

“I have to…” His voice, low and a little gruff, doesn’t hide the shakiness. “Can I scent you?”

The 'consent' line had hit him pretty hard (of _course_ it had, damn it, Stiles had meant for it to break tension, not add to it), and Stiles has to be the one to shuffle in, to bare his throat before Derek allows himself to sigh and drop his head down into it, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ neck, breathing deep.

“Not that I mind or anything, but why didn’t you ask Scott?”

He’d waited until they were alone for this. Derek pauses, huffs a little unimpressed laugh into Stiles’ collar.

“Scott’s an ally, but he’s not _pack._ ”

And then freezes. Starts to pull back while Stiles’ brain reels, trying to process what had just come out of Derek’s mouth. Derek’s hand drops away, but Stiles has his wrist before he can fall back too far.

“Pack?” he echoes, and Derek’s eyes go down like he expects Stiles to scoff. Honestly, he’s not really sure why he isn’t. “I… you think of me as pack?”

He’s in Scott’s pack. He’s most definitely in and totally devoted to Scott’s pack. But for some reason, Derek thinking of him as pack too… it doesn’t seem as weird as he thought it would.

“You’ve saved me.” Derek shrugs, like that will take away some of the gravity from his words. “My wolf trusts you.”

“…Wow.” He’s a bit stunned, a lot flattered. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Don’t get too full of yourself. The wolf’s all instinct. It’s not—”

“So then,” he cuts in grinning. “Your _instinct_ loves me.”

“Trusts.” Derek corrects, hands shifting down his sides like he wants to shove them into his pockets, forgetting that his leather jacket’s tucked away back at the loft. And… is that a blush coloring his cheeks? Stiles feels a tickle deep inside him, somewhere around the beard burn heating his collar.

And then Derek’s stance tenses as a new thought hits him, and Stiles can literally see the good humor drain out of his form.

“And my instinct hasn’t always been the greatest judge.”

Derek grimaces again with his next breath, his tongue running along his teeth and his eyes going dark.

Stiles winces.

“Hey… you know I’m not…”

“I know.”

It’s not even as though it's the same thing. He and Kate… they don’t even inhabit vaguely the same space in Derek's mind. Stiles is someone who happened to save Derek’s life a few times (happened to get saved by Derek more than once too, a quiet stirring from some deep level of his consciousness adds. If Stiles had an inner wolf, he’s sure it would have accepted Derek as maybe-almost-pack months ago). But it’s not the same, not close to the same thing as what Derek had felt for Kate.

Except that Derek had definitely blushed at Stiles’ teasing, his ears still the slightest bit red from it. And Stiles was _definitely_ interested by all of Derek’s manhandling. And if he’s totally honest with himself he feels like this has been a long time coming.

He might not be Derek’s pack… but Derek definitely is his _something._

He shifts closer, and despite Derek’s tense stance, he doesn’t so much as flinch when Stiles’ hands are back on him again.

“I wish I could get rid of the memories for you as easily as the scent.” One hand slides up Derek’s shoulder to rest on his nape. Derek’s eyes drift up to his face, still shuttered but the blinds cracking open. Wary, curious. “But I’ve heard that the best cure for bad memories are better ones.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Maybe Derek’s not the only one working on instinct.

There’s some kind of longing in Derek’s expression as he searches Stiles’ face, his words, tries to pick them apart and piece them back together in a way that makes sense in his empathy-starved mind.

“I can still _taste_ her,” he says, finally. His eyes are opening up again, and there’s something like interest beyond the oceans of bitterness.

It could be nothing more than a confession, but Stiles’ instincts insist they sense an invitation there too. Derek’s eyes seem to agree, falling to Stiles’ mouth.

Pack, not pack. Interest, trust, _love._ That’s all too heavy for this moment of scent and taste and wanting to be closer. Maybe this thing between them doesn’t have to be labeled or examined. Not yet. Nothing about Stiles and Derek has ever been about logic, anyway. They jump in when they should run out, they fall toward each other when they should be stumbling away.

No, everything between them has always been about instinct.

“Well,” Stiles finds himself breathing. “We’d better fix that then, huh?”

And he leans in to lick the bitter echo of Kate Argent from Derek’s mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
